


Treasure under The Mountain

by ClassicalTorture



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Drugs, Forced Captivity, M/M, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicalTorture/pseuds/ClassicalTorture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And in the heart of the Lonely Mountain lays Thorin's most prized possession. His crown jewel, known of only by those closest to him, and even then with great reluctance. In the bed of silks and furs, among gold and gems he sleeps, undisturbed by all for fear of the Dwarven King's wrath that should fall on anyone who dares to awaken his burglar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This comes with a wonderful piece of fanart http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/treasure+under+the+mountain

I do not own anything here! Its all Tolkien!

Let’s see if I can do this then

Fili and Kili were standing at the doorway that led into a dimly lit room in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Their eyes swept over the piles of carefully arranged gold, gems and precious metals that towered all around and were placed together in a manner distinctly reminisce of the piles of gold and treasure that drove the old king mad. Only instead of the precious stone, resting over the brow of the dwarven ruler it was the small form in the middle of the lavish bed, situated in center of the adobe.

 Kili clutched his belt tighter as his gaze rested on the body of their burglar, a one Mr. Bilbo Baggins. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to have the small hobbit open his eyes, fluster about, and try to be helpful again. But alas, for several days now, there has been not a twitch from him, and all they saw was the ever increasing decorations of most precious and exotic materials around him. Bilbo was dressed in the fine white shirt with silken ties, soft breeches, and a warm blue coat with golden fur trimming, as he rested his head on the pillows of the bed. He was covered with throws of some of the best fur that Fili and Kili has ever seen, and at his feet laid rolls of silks and velvet. The hobbit looked as though he was the crown jewel of the king’s coffers and as the two young dwarves shifted to look at the form that stood next to his bed, they couldn’t help but think that he was.

Thorin was looking the hobbit with a look neither brother could decipher, but his eyes did not leave the other’s face even for a moment, and his hand continued to trickle dozen of small gems over his nest of curls. His task finished, Thorin stepped back to look at the finished result. His burglar looked like a precious commodity, the most distinguished treasure, one to never be let go of. And now with his hair glittering softly under the flicker of the candle light, he truly looked as though he belonged in his treasury.

Thorin lifted his hand to touch the smaller being, but it hovered without reaching its destination. How could he touch something so beautiful and fragile? This being already saved him more times than he could count, and how did he repay him? By landing him injured and asleep in the middle of the battlefield, while Thorin was too busy looking for that thrice damned stone! The hobbit proved himself to be most capable when he has thrown himself boldly in front of the dwarf to protect him from the orc; he has saved the whole company from the nest of giant spiders, showing to everyone that he knew how to use the “letter-opener” of his; he has displayed cunning and stealth by freeing the whole company from the dungeons of Thranduil, and so many other times had he been the reason for one of the members of the company, or Thorin himself to be alive right now. And yet, none of them were able to protect him at his hour of need, and make sure that he was safe and unhurt. Well no more! Thorin finally lowered his hand so it rested within inched of the sleeping hobbit’s face, imagining the heat of the body next to his seeping into his fingers. He was safe now, and no one or nothing would ever come even close to harming his treasure.

The King Under the Mountain turned and eyes his nephews, who were both looking at the room around him. They had the right to be impressed. Thorin scouted half the Mountain, in search of the best and most prized of the treasures saved there, and had them moved to this chamber, he has arranged everything to look its best, and then in the dead of the night, brought the hobbit in, and settled him in the silken linens, and fur throws, and golden casings. He would keep Bilbo safe, and away from harm, and away from those who would try to take him away. The burglar was his greatest treasure now, and he would be damned if anyone tried to deny him.

 ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  A moon has passed since Thorin had brought Bilbo into the room in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. And yet the hobbit still lay upon the silks and furs unmoving, unresponsive, and in that, unyielding. The dwarven king has devoted time every day to go to the room and check on his treasure, spending hours near his bed if permitted by his duties. More and more priceless artifacts were being brought in from all corners of the kingdom, and the half-forgotten mines of the mountain. Chests overflowing with gems and jewelry; rolls of material and fabrics, seen only on the royalty of men and ether kin; art and metal work of great creators: all not worth even a curl on the head of the one Thorin was staring at.

  The king sat reverently at the cushion placed next to the bedstead, as not to ruffle the slumber of the one occupying it. He shed his long coat and dropped it carelessly on the floor, leaned down, and brought to his lap a small box, adorned with carvings of flowers and twines. Opening it, Thorin’s gaze stopped at the assortment of rings settled on the velvet inside. He picked up one, made from mithril, with the square cut stone the color of fresh honey set in the middle and reached across the bedspread towards the hand laying on it. Hesitating momentarily Thorin grasped the palm as gently as he could and slowly lifted it, bringing it closer to himself. He marveled for a moment at the softness and texture of it as his fingers slid from the wrist to the digits of the hobbit. Ever so slowly he brought the hand to the edge of the bed and placed the dully reflecting ring on one of the fingers. It sat there, fit to perfection, as Thorin himself made sure it would, and beckoned him to continue.

Heading the call the dwarf took another ring from the box, this one of heavy gold, filled with inlays of rubies so bright, they shone as ambers in the fire even in the smallest of candle lights. The act unremitting as Throrin picked more and more rings from the box, always choosing the best ones, with the most exquisite of stones and craftsmanship to adore his hobbit’s hand. Soon there was no more space on it, and Thorin gingerly stood up, not letting go as he gazed upon the face of his treasure.

 Slowly his scrutiny switched to the hand he was still in possession of and the king lowered his head and brought up the soft palm, placing a kiss on the knuckles, feeling the slowly warming metal of the adornments he had placed there on his lips. He let the hand don on the furs and went on the other side of the bed, continuing the ceremony until all but one finger was left uncrowned. Thorin glanced at the box and found it empty, and then he looked at his own hand holding the hobbits and at the ring that sat upon it. The heavy metal, inlayed with the blue stone, and silver work twisting together into the seal, that proclaimed him as the sovereign and King Under the Mountain. 


	2. Chapter 2

Kili swept his eyes over the dark hall as he crouched by the corner. There seemed to be no guards on duty for once, most likely due to the delegation from Dale that came to visit. That also explained the absence of Thorin, as usually this was the hour that the king would disappear from the chambers filled with his subjects and travel to the heart of the mountain.

  Kili still remembered the way to the rooms he has only been able to visit once before, all the twists and turns it took his uncle to lead Fili and him to the heavy granite door, and what it guarded. And since that day, many moons ago, Kili has been unable to think of much other. Again and again his thoughts turned to the small figure in the middle of the lavish bed, resting on silks and furs, with a splattering of jewels and gems upon its brow, glittering dimly in the sparse candle light. Only after that one visit his uncle refused to let him see the hobbit, refused to answer questions about him, or even mention him at all. It looked as though the King Under the Mountain was determined to make sure that no one else saw the burglar again.

   Sneaking as silently as he could the dark haired youth finally arrived at his destination: the stone archway with an unusual keyhole. Kili remembered Thorin using his ring to open it, and had prepared by making sure he had a copy of the ring, widdled out of wood, just for the occasion. It came through and as soon as all the parts of the ring connected to the hole, a handle slid out from the side, allowing the dwarf to pull the door open.

   As he stepped into the room Kili’s eyes hungrily fell onto the only figure in it, stopping for a moment to admire the sight. His uncle really has made sure to surround their burglar with only the finest riches available, and the finished work looked exquisite. Bilbo truly looked as though he was ready to be paid homage to by kings of elves and men, and dwarf alike. Gingerly Kili walked further into the door, forgetting about the door, and the wooden ring inside the keyhole, as he fell upon his knees next to the bed and placed his hands upon the body lying there. Fingers tracing the shape and contour, palms pressing here and there, the dwarf tried to implant the details into his memory clear as he could. He rose higher and placed his hands on the face he so desired would once more alight with smile and a kind word. And then he lowered his face to finally taste that which he had desired for so very long.

   And then he flew, dragged off by the collar of his cloak, as his ears were assaulted by an enraged and loud shout. Kili hit the wall of gold and pearls that occupied the northern side of the room, and as he slid down covered by the collapsing treasure his pained eyes fell on the drawn up figure of Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain who stood towering over him with breaths coming to and from him in a huff and a gaze filled coldness and fire all at once.

   “How dare you…You betray me, and break into my sanctuary; you dare disturb him at his rest; you try to defile him! My own nephew!” Growled Thorin as he advanced at the fallen dwarf, full of anger and a sense of jealousy like he had never felt before. His own blood dared to attempt possessing what was rightfully his, what he had locked away to keep safe.

   “Uncle, no, I was just…” stammered Kili as he tried to get up only to be held down by Thorin’s foot that the dwarf placed on his nephews chest and pressed down hard, making his ribs creak, and his breath catch.

   “You will _never_ see this room and the one occupying it again nephew. You will tell no one and you better forget that you were ever here, if you want to live, do you understand me?” asked Thorin in a quiet voice.

   Kili could only try to keep his wits about him in, as he felt more and more air leave, without returning.

“Yes, my king.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo dreamt. He dreamt of light, seeping through the leaves, and grass, moist with dew fresh in the morning; moss and the ever green of the trees in Shire, and the rolling hills of his Bag End. He dreamt of his cozy hobbit hole, filled with books of old and mysterious, cups of fine porcelain, and doylies made by his grandmother’s fragile hands, as she sat upon the rocking chair in front of the fire, and told little hobbits tales of old, when their race still lived on the other side of the Great River, and struggled to find their place. And then his dreams shifted, and he was suddenly on an old mountain road, being rained on hard and the relentless pace set by the figure in front of him. He wants to call out, to tell him to stop, to slow down, because he can’t keep up, and more and more figures pass him by, leaving him slowly behind.

   Bilbo dreams.  He dreams of a dark forest filled with vile and disgusting creatures, who all want to swallow him up. He dreams of a tight embrace by silken threads, and a sting of a spike driven through him so many many times, he thinks it’s not him that’s being caressed by the pain, but rather so many of those he holds dear, and he is taking on their pain as good as he can.

   Bilbo dreams of a cold cold dungeon, and loneliness, and fear. Of being alone, of being cold, of being hungry, of being found, and most of all he dreams the fear of failing.

   Water. So much and so cold, and so fast, and so deep. The smell of wooded barrels and the feel of them between his legs, as he tries desperately to hold on, to keep his eye on every other vessel that holds his friends, but they are sinking, and slamming, and drifting away, and he is just so cold, and so afraid.

   Bilbo dreams of blood. Of angry shouting, and war cries in so many languages. He dreams of man, elf, and dwarf slamming into each other wall to wall, the Battle of Five Armies that feels as though the whole Middle Earth is shaking with the fury. He dreams of staying alive, and running, so much _running!_ He fears that he will never stop now that he started to dash from one seemingly safe place to another, never staying for longer than a moment, never having an option to just walk away, as more and more try to impale, stab, hurt, and kill him. Bilbo tries so very hard to find someone, someone important, someone he knows he should be near.

   Bilbo dreams of running to the heart of the battle, that’s taking place right under the gates to the Lonely Mountain. He wants to be closer; for once he wants to protect, to be the one they can rely on. To not be a burden to them and to _him._ Oh he would do anything to be useful to him. And when he sees the figure he so desperately tied to find, about to be stabbed in the back, while holding his own against other opponents, he doesn’t think. After all there is nothing to think about.

   Bilbo dreamt of pain, and cold; of stone and ice; of metal and gems. He thinks that he is filled with them. Bilbo dreams of fear, and uncertainty, and helplessness. He dreams of doubt and cold, and glittering metal, and safety.

   Bilbo dreams. And in his dreams he sees the one he loves protecting him. And suddenly he thinks… _This is better. He is here. I did my part and now he is king, he is home, and he is safe. And I can rest now, because I protected him._

   Bilbo dreams of stars trailing down his head and he is delighted, for stars have never came to him before. He dreams of harsh hands, caressing his fingers and he feels warm, and cherished. He dreams of lips and hair, and roughness, and he is content, for he is loved. And from that love he will never walk away.

   Bilbo sleeps. And in his sleep he smiles at the caress of rough fingers, and shivers at the feeling of a beard, tickling his face, as his lips are claimed again and again. He sleeps, and in his dream he is happy, for the one who brings him happiness is there.

   Thorin lies on the bed of silks and fur, and trails his fingers over the face of the one he loves. He sees the smile, and entwines his hand with the others. He feels the shudder and kisses the sweet lips. He presses closer and looks at the door that spouts locks and chains, and at the small incense burner that hangs over the head of the bed, streaming chains of smoke down and down, into the mind and body of the one he loves. And he dreams that if he was to take the incense away, if he was to throw the gift of the Necromancer out, his love would still stay with him on his own free will.

 


End file.
